


288 - Anonymous Guitarists & Skype Calls

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: Cute meet, F/M, Fluff, Reader-Insert
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 18:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15646248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “Van and the reader meet one night&really hit it off but then he’s gone off on tour for a year and they only talk through the phone and how a relationship develops once he comes off your?” and “domestic Van; doing the groceries, driving, doing the dishes, going to bed, taking Mary for a walk and add a part where they’re listening, singing or whatever you want, the cover by Fiona Apple of Across The Universe?”





	288 - Anonymous Guitarists & Skype Calls

There was an ache in your bones that could have only etched its way there through days and days of exhaustion. It was past midnight when you finally collapsed on your couch, just getting home after your first week on the new job. You weren’t complaining though; you were grateful for the opportunity. After all, it came with a significant increase in income. The new apartment was proof of that. Honestly, anything would be an increase from the hospitality jobs you were kicking around in since high school. Regardless of your appreciation, you’d still hardly slept all week and your emotions were all over the place.

It didn’t come as much of a surprise when you burst into tears, an obvious symptom of the exhaustion. The problem was that you were too tired to calm yourself down. So, you sulked around for almost half an hour before the music started.

The notes were only faintly audible through the wall. You creeped out into hallway connecting the fourth floor apartments. Near 4B’s door, you could hear it more clearly. Someone was playing the guitar. An electric acoustic, you thought. It wasn’t a recording because the same song stopped and started a couple of times. You didn’t recognise the melody but were soothed by it nonetheless.

With your back against the wall, you slid down to sit on the ugly carpeted hallway floor. By the end of the song your crying had slowed to small sniffles and the tears on your cheeks had dried. By the end of the anonymous guitarist’s three-song set, you were so sleepy it was hard to stand and go back to your own apartment. When your head hit the pillow, you were dead to the world. Thank you, anonymous guitarist. Sincerely, your number one fan.

….

Every time you heard the guitar, you stopped what you were doing and snuck into the hallway to listen. The only exception was when you had people over. You wanted to keep the anonymous guitarist to yourself. It was more fun that way. Having no idea who lived in 4B meant you could dream up an entirely beautiful imaginary world for you and them.

The world expanded just before two am on a Friday night. They were playing again but the instrument had changed. The piano, or more likely - the keyboard, was loud enough to wake you. Stretched out and warm in bed, you rolled over, hugged a pillow close to you, and listened. The bliss lasted only a couple of minutes before the banging. Nosey by nature, you ran to your front door and carefully peeked out. A neighbour, the one that yelled at you for putting too much garbage down the garbage chute at once, was pounding on 4B’s door.

It opened.

“It’s two in the bleedin’ morning!” the neighbour yelled, giving no space for 4B to reply. “Don’t care who you are, mate. Some of us are tryna’ sleep!”

“I’m so sorry, mate! I didn’t know you could hear us,” 4B said. You couldn’t see him from your doorway.

“Yeah, well-”

“We pay enough for these fancy apartments that you’d think the walls would be a bit thicker, you know what I mean?” he tried for a joke to calm the mood and cut the tension.

You watched the neighbour shake his head and storm home into 4A. 4B stepped out of his doorway, moving a couple of steps towards 4A. “I am sorry!” he called as the door slammed on the interaction.

4B, your anonymous guitarist, stood there for a moment. He was in jeans, which you thought was strange for someone chilling at home playing music. At least they seemed worn in and a little loose fitting. He wore grey socks and a black t-shirt. With his back to you, you couldn’t read if it said anything on the front. He was about to turn though. Quickly, without needing to think, you closed your door softly.

Better to leave him a mystery.

…

The music stopped completely for a while and you considered playing some sort of nasty prank on the neighbour that had ruined your thing. It cautiously started again with soft guitar before midnight. You found yourself sitting outside his door, growing bolder in your potentially creepy, potentially sweet behaviour. When the elevator door opened, you didn’t even scramble for your apartment anymore. People would either smile at you, hearing the softness in the music too, or they’d give you a strange look that didn’t affect you much. Soon enough, most of the people living on the floor knew that when they heard the music, they could find you there too.

One day, while you were at work, the music started. At the same time, 4D ran out of milk. She’d known the guitarist since he moved in. She knew he was a tea drinker. So, she knocked on his door and waited for him. “Hey. Missin’ your audience, huh?” she joked, motioning to the ground below. The guitarist raised an eyebrow, confused. And that’s how he learnt about you.

…

Eyes closed. Skin tingling all over with goosebumps. Brain split; one part trying to place the melody into a song you knew and the other floating away with the music. There was something different about the guitarists’ playing that day. It definitely wasn’t your favourite thing he’d played, but the familiarity was pulling you into it. It was louder too. Clear. So entranced, you didn’t even hear the door of apartment 4B open and the footsteps of someone moving to stand in front of you.

“Now, if you say this one’s ya favourite, I’m gonna have to be a bit offended, yeah?”

Yelping, then standing up so quick you made yourself a little dizzy, you felt your stomach drop and your heart jump into your throat. 4B put an arm out to steady you, but it was unnecessary. Focusing, you looked at him, expecting an apology for startling you. Instead you were met with a satisfied smirk. And, fuck. He was stupidly beautiful. He had freckles and long eyelashes and a softness to him.

“This a trap?” you asked, despite knowing the answer.

The smirk grew into a wide grin. He nodded. “Little birdy told me you were campin’ on me doorstep whenever I was playin'… so….” he explained, pointing over his shoulder with a thumb in a motion that represented something to him but nothing to you. “Figure I should at least offer ya a couple of tea while you listen.” He stepped back and held his arms out in an invitation to enter his apartment.

The guitarist was barefoot. The jeans he was in were not the same as the comfy ones; they were cleaner and tighter. Although the maroon shirt he was wearing was a button up, it was a casual one with no collar and made from soft cotton. He made the outfit look simultaneously good enough for a dinner out and comfortable enough for a night in. And, even at the distance you were at, you could smell the mix of scents on him. A smoker, definitely. Mint… from maybe freshly washed teeth or crisp aftershave. Then, a cologne. It smelt too expensive to be spray deodorant. It was a warm smell, almost hot with spice. Everything about him was distracting.

While you were being distracted by all the small things, it occurred to him that he’d not introduced himself formally. His mother had raised him to have better manners than that and his father taught him to charm more effectively than that.

“I’m Van, by the way,” he said, offering a hand to shake.

Taking it, you replied, “Y/N.”

…

The warmth and safety and bliss you felt listening to Van’s guitar through the walls was one thing. The experience of lying on his bed, watching him sit on the windowsill, cigarette hanging from his lips, as he worked out melodies for his band’s new album was an entirely different thing. You could have never stopped yourself falling in love, even if you tried. 

Despite working most of the time and Van always off on overnight trips to meet with label reps and potential producers, it all worked. When you were both on level four, you’d stay glued to each other; more often than not you’d be in Van’s apartment. It felt like an oasis from the rest of the world. Separate. Special. You’d cook together and eat and get high and listen to records and write music. It was perfect.

Neither you nor Van would define the relationship out loud. There were too many ‘what ifs’ hanging over your heads. The melodies and cookies and lasagne kept it at bay but saying anything too serious seemed like a good way of bursting it and letting that rain pour. Instead, you teased him about his chest hair patch and kissed every single freckle on his body you could find. Van tapped on your teeth like piano keys and blew raspberries on your tummy. The perfect world was finally truly perfected.

…

“Did… I… Uh… Should we, um, talk about… us or whatever, before I go?” Van asked at a really weird time. Standing in front of him in the shower, having him wash the remaining conditioner out of your hair, you felt exposed all of a sudden.

“Um… If… you want to. About what?” you replied awkwardly. Turning around, you could see that Van was seriously contemplating something. He was chewing his lip, even as he pulled you into him.

“It's… It’s a whole year, you know what I mean? I’ll be able to fly in… like… here and there, but…”

“Yeah, I get it,” you said but really didn’t. It was then that you were thankful for being in the shower. You could feel your nose start to tingle with the beginning of tears. If any came, you could claim it was water. Van would never know that you felt some real big feelings.

“I just… This is… You're… Fuck, love, you know?”

It made you giggle a little. “Yeah, I know…”

“I just… I don’t want you to have to wait around for me, you know?” he said all at once. “I’ve tried it before, the whole long distance thing. It’s the fuckin’ worse. It’s lonely and ya get all guilty 'bout everythin’ and… I don’t want to do it. I don’t want you to do it.”

Van’s arms tightened around you. It was hard to say if he was trying to comfort himself or you at that point. You let him squeeze.

“Yeah…” you started slowly. You could have looked up and said something about how he just wanted to fuck girls on tour, but you knew that wasn’t true and it would have been cruel - even as a joke. You could have said what you had already decided in your head, which was that you were going to wait for him, even if he did find some amazing girl in a band that could keep up with his lifestyle and amazingness. Instead, you said, “I’ll miss you.”

…

The first month was easy. The second one was too, but you didn’t want to admit that. You needed to prove your love for Van to yourself, and being okay without him seemed incompatible to love. Logically that was flawed thinking, and you talked yourself out of being too dramatic with a good dose of girl power. You’d lived this long without a man. Probably could continue to do so, you know?

You threw yourself into work and it wasn’t until month five that missing Van really started to make an impact. It wasn’t even just him that you missed. Coping strategy number one was listening to him play music, and with him out performing for the world instead of just you, your survival felt harder. And then there was the domestic effect. 

Van used to usher you from the elevator into his apartment whenever you got home late from work. He’d put your bag down and have a cup of tea waiting. You didn’t want to ask how he always knew the exact time you’d be there because the mystery was beautiful. The only possible way he could know though was that he watched for you at the window. 

He would have thought about dinner. Vegetables would be cut or Ubereats would be open on his laptop. He played the role of househusband like he was born for it. You missed that. You missed him.

The sound of his voice over the phone helped. It eased the ache in your soul. Skype was better. When he threw his head back in laughter it felt like you could breathe just a little easier. Watching his hands move as he spoke was just as amusing as it was in person. It was enough to get by on. 

You wondered if he felt the same. Was he missing you like you were missing him? Was he counting the days? Or, was he living the frontman life in all its sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll glory? Van didn’t seem like the type. He liked the taste of Yorkshire tea and Lucozade more than spirits and beer. He still carried around cheap hand-rolled smokes. But, you’d not known him long. Who was to say what he was like on tour?

Over the phone, Van recounted everything to you. He called when he said he would. “Never been good at fuckin’ time zone differences and all that… Fuckin’ miracle I ain’t fucked this up yet, love,” he laughed. He could pretend it was luck or magic, but every single person on tour with him knew he was in love. Bets were placed on how long it would take for the prized necklace to disappear.

“Call me when you need me,” Van would say at the end of each conversation. “When ya need me to play to you, 'kay? Know you think I’m just sayin’ it, but bein’ on tour ain’t as exciting as ya think, you know? Lots of time to kill on the bus… So, don’t be a stranger.”

…

“You don’t have to do this,” you whispered through the laptop. Your head was on your pillow, blankets pulled up tight around you. The room was dark, save for the glowing screen of the laptop. And while you’d stopped crying, you still felt sore from all the sad. Van could see it through the Skype call and it hurt him too.

“I know. But I want to… It will be like before we proper met…” he said, referencing the night’s you’d fall asleep listening to him play. “And 'sides. I’ve learnt somethin’ for ya.”

His acoustic guitar sounded better through Skype than it did through the walls, but it felt so, so far away. Coincidently, it felt like it was coming from across the universe - which is the song he’d learnt just for you. Van didn’t need to say it, but you knew by the way he was singing that it was Fiona Apple’s cover. It was one of your all-time favourite songs, and hearing him singing it softly and play it carefully made you ache for him.

“Limitless undying love which shines around me like a million suns… It calls me on and on, across the universe…” he sang as you held your eyes closed tightly, drawing your legs up close to your body. “Nothing’s gonna change my world.” The repetition was making you fade out. You wondered if he’d just keep going until you fell asleep; it seemed like he was playing longer than the song went. “Babe, you’re gonna change my world,” he alternated. A warmness bloomed outwards all across your body, starting in your heart.

When you woke up the next morning, you couldn’t recall falling asleep. From the time of the end of the Skype call, you worked out that Van had probably stayed with you for fifteen minutes after you passed out. Desperately, so fucking desperately, you wanted him home. You wanted him to be yours, here or there. Anywhere across the universe.

…

It hurt more each time he’d visit for a couple of days. When it was just messages and Skype, you could pretend it had always been like that. That the world you’d built in your mind, then in real life, never existed. But, when he was there in person, the ache was very fucking real. When he was warm hands on your hips and between your thighs. When he was really bad jokes followed by cracked laughter. When he was non-fiction and doting on you… well fuck.

Seven. You saw Van seven times in person that year. Each time only served to make you like him and miss him more.

…

There were people Van would want to see before he saw you. That is what you told yourself. A girl he knew for a couple of months before the tour couldn’t be priority number one. He’d only seen you a handful of times over the past twelve months. At best, you were somebody he briefly knew… or an internet friend… Yet, your phone rang at some God-awful hour.

“One more flight, then I can sleep for days,” Van reported. You could imagine him sitting in the airport lounge, long legs out in front of him, Larry asleep on his shoulder. “Always loved touring, you know? It's… humbling and I appreciate everything we’ve got-”

“But you’re tired?” you finished for him, saving him from admitting anything he’d feel guilty about.

“Aw, babe. You fuckin’ know it. So, ya pickin’ us up from the airport, yeah?”

Your heart stopped and your skin turned to sunshine. On a new, higher plane of existence, you nodded frantically to an empty room. “Yeah, sure,” you said as casually as you could fake it. “When’s ya flight get in?”

…

“I think I just assumed you’d be a light traveller? Like… you wear the same thing every day, so…” you said as you opened the boot of your car and watched Van put two travel cases and a backpack inside.

“Oi! What’s this attitude about?! Only reason I got another bag is 'cause I got presents for you… But, look, if ya’d rather me just take 'em back…?”

“No!” you laughed, slamming the boot closed.

“Well then. How about a nicer welcome home, huh?”

Van opened his arms wide and smiled like a kid. You stepped into the hug and let him rock you from side to side. He smelt different from how you remembered. But he felt like home. He kissed the top of your head and when you moved to look at him, he kissed your forehead. There wasn’t one tiny part of you that didn’t know what you wanted, but equally, there wasn’t a part of you that knew how to get it. You nuzzled into the crook of his neck, then pressed your head to his. Van touched his nose to yours and you could feel your stomach twisting up in knots.

“I missed you,” you whispered. It sounded stupid out loud.

“I missed you too. It's… different… Different with you. You’re different,” he replied. Van broke the hug to move his arms. He held your face in his hands, gently running his thumbs down your cheeks.

“Different… how?”

Van shrugged. “I don’t know,” he said in a bubbly tone. “Alright. Ready? I wanna shower so bad.”

…

Van had asked you to check in on his place every so often while he was away. At about the four-month mark, you found yourself checking it more and more. Then you found yourself falling asleep in his bed. Eventually, you felt like it was probably a creepy and invasive thing to be doing without Van knowing. 

When you told him over the phone, kind of asking permission, he laughed. “Awwwww, love!” he cooed. It was all a very 'official relationship’ thing to do. Van loved it, though. 

When he was sitting on the bus with nothing to do, when he was waiting politely for the next journalist to walk in, he’d think of you. He’d imagine you wrapped up in the sheets he’d bought just after he met you. All his mates gave him shit about it. How presumptuous to buy nice sheets for a girl you just met. He imagined you sleeping warm and safe, waiting for him. When Van thought of you, he thought of you waiting for him.

The apartment was home to you, but for Van, he’d hardly seen it at all in twelve months. For a couple of minutes, he felt out of place. You watched him stand in the space, looking aimless and lost. He glanced at the few plants he had. They, of course, were watered and alive.

“Van? Maybe shower? You hungry? I’ll order something?”

Van turned to you. You were still by the door with his three bags. He nodded, then began to walk to the bathroom.

“Curry?” Van asked. 

You nodded, shutting the door behind you and breathing out.

While Van was in the shower, you ordered the food, put the heater on, and set up shop on the couch. Van didn’t have Netflix; it would be wasted on the nomad. Regular television was a weird concept for you, so you got out your laptop (how many of your possessions had found a new home?) and HDMI'ed that shit. By the time Van appeared, you’d settled on old downloaded episodes of Bob’s Burgers.

“What’s the story, morning glory?” he asked as he flopped down next to you. His hair was still wet and he whipped it around like a dog to dry it.

“Stop!” you squealed, shielding your face with a throw blanket that Van didn’t recognise. When he went quiet you peeked out. He was sitting, smiling in his stupidly cute grey track pants and stupidly cute old Fifa t-shirt. “The story is, Ryan, that Indian will be here in about thirty,”

“Yes, good stuff, love… Awwww, fuck me,” he grumbled as he settled down into the couch, really slouching into it.

“Blanket?” you offered, cuddling down next to him.

“Yeah, love. Come 'ere,” he replied, putting an arm around you and kissing the top of your head. “It’s fuckin’ good to be home.”

…

With Van back, you both fell into the routine established before he left. You’d go to work, bury yourself in it to drown out the thoughts of Van, then fall into his arms when you got home. Some days, you’d not even check in on your own apartment. Your clothes and makeup and work stuff were scattered between the two places. It was a little chaotic, but it felt natural. The funny thing was that you never imagined yourself to be the type to love the whole domestic bliss trope. Yet, there you were.

It was a Tuesday night. A meeting ran late and you didn’t make it through the door of Van’s apartment until sometime just after eight. You could hear the vacuum when the elevator doors opened. The paper-thin walls may have been the thing that brought you together, but they still came with their fair share of cons too.

Van didn’t hear you when you walked in. He was in old jeans and no shirt, vacuuming the open plan living area. You watched for a moment, amused at the image. His head popped up when he noticed you. His cheeks were rosy pink from effort.

“Hey, baby. Big one, huh?” he asked, kicking the vacuum off and walking over. You nodded, making an exaggerated sad face. “Aw, babe. Well, I got you sorted. Done a bit of cleaning. Even washed and dried all those fuckin’ blankets you keep bringing in 'ere,”

“You love them!” you defended, letting Van pull you over to the couch. As you began to unstrap your shoes, he continued.

“Yeah. I do. Good for a cuddle… So, they’re washed. Fresh as a daisy! Then, I got some dinner on,”

“I can smell it,” you remarked, smiling up at him.

“Yeah?! Well, we’ll eat, wash a bit of telly, then early night,” Van finished, rocking on his heels. His smile was a beg for validation.

“You are my hero,” you whispered to him.

Van had cooked roast vegetables because you complained frequently that all you really wanted was a big bowl of roast potato. “Thought a carrot wouldn’t go astray, ya know?” he laughed about the other inclusions. 

When your belly was poking out more than usual, you let Van take your bowl. You listened as he rinsed dishes and loaded the dishwasher. An image popped into your head then, one of the future. A house would be bought by both you and Van. Neither of you liked ultra-modern places, but you liked the open plan of the apartments you met in. You liked listening to each other go about your nightly routine. Before the image in your head could get any more domestic and beautiful and… baby including… you snapped out of it.

Van leaned over the back of the couch. “Bed?”

…

“This is it… you know what I mean?” Van whispered. He kind of just mumbled it out, like it came straight from inside his brain. “This is what life’s for.”

The sun was setting on an unseasonably warm day. Getting lucky, it was coincidently a registered day off. You and Van spent the morning sitting on the balcony, listening to music and talking shit. During the afternoon, when it was too hot to be out there, you showered together then disappeared under the sheets of the bed. From the start, sex with Van was easy. That wasn’t something you could say about the other interactions you’d had with people.

Van seemed oblivious to the things you thought stuck out as ugly or wrong. Better than that, while you were with him, you kind of just forgot about them too. When you were with Van, all the ways you moved… all the sounds you made… all the everythings were second nature and good.

When the sun stopped scorching the balcony furniture, you both headed back out with fizzy wine. When you first saw Van’s weird standalone hammock, you laughed. But then, laying with him in it, swinging gently in the warm breeze, you realised how wrong you were. It was heaven.

You opened your eyes and looked up. The sky was perfectly blue. There were only a couple of fluffy white clouds in the sky. Normally, you’d want to know what shape Van saw in them, but the moment was too serene to break. Instead, you breathed in deeply and exhaled, happy. Properly, truly happy.

Movement caught your eye and you watched a bug fly past, circling the balcony. As it came closer, you recognised it as a ladybug. In the movies, they were always bright red. In reality though, they were more orange. You watched it land on Van’s hand, the one resting on your thigh. He didn’t move to brush it off. Maybe he was asleep; you didn’t want to move to check. The ladybug walked across the back of Van’s hand, somehow taking a path around all the freckles. It kept going over the wrist bone and down his arms. You tracked its movements all the way up until the point where you’d have to tilt your head to see it. Too much effort that.

Closing your eyes, you let the afternoon sun warm your skin as you fell asleep. 

…

There was a knock on your apartment door early in the morning. You were getting ready for work and already running late. They kept knocking as you grabbed your bag and picked up your keys.

“Sorry, I’m just on my way o-” you started to say.

“Babe,” Van said, a little confused.

“Van? What are you doing? What’s wrong?”

“Good mornin’ to you too, love,” he laughed.

“I’m running late, Van. I’ve gotta go,”

“Yeah, alright. I’ll walk you to ya car,” he offered. You nodded and walked. Van watched you press the elevator button multiple times. “Sleep through your alarm again?“

"Swear to God it’s getting quieter,” you mumbled, stepping into the elevator as it finally arrived.

“Yeah, sure. This is why you should just stay with me all the time. You wake up in a better mood with me,”

“Nothing wrong with my mood,” you countered.

“Course, sunshine. Just sayin'… if you wanted to… you could stay at mine more…” Van’s voice was off. Something was up, but you were too stressed with your possible lateness that you didn’t pick up on it.

“Yeah, okay. So, did you need something?” you asked. Van looked at you, cocking his head in confusion. “Why were ya knocking on my door so early? Could’ve just messaged?”

“Oh! Yeah. I was up doin’ some stuff. Writin’ a shopping list and was just seeing if you needed anything,” Van said casually.

“What?” you asked, looking at him.

Van misunderstood. “Huh? …'Cause you’re so busy with work and stuff. Didn’t want you runnin’ out of… milk, or whatever,”

“No… I know what you meant… I just…” you tried but failed to articulate what it was that was stunning you. All of him, really. “If I run out of somethin’, I’ll just come to yours… since… since I’ll be there more,”

“That’s true,” Van replied, trying to read your expression.

The elevator doors opened to the sublevel parking lot. You took a step and Van followed. Quickly, you spun around and put a hand on his chest.

“Stay. Go do the shopping. Actually, fuck. Yeah, I do need something,” you said. Van nodded, happy to be of service. “Think my period’s due soon. Can you pick us up some pads and some Jaffa cakes and like… more good surprises to give me at random times through the week?”

Van laughed. “Yeah… Wait, what do you mean you 'think’? Don’t girls like… know? Ain’t it like a 'same time each month’ thing?”

“Some girls. I’m a mess,” you said with a shrug.

Van grinned and pulled you into a hug. “My mess,” he mumbled into your hair as he kissed your head.

…

Fiona Apple’s voice always sounded better at night. More specifically, as the stars started to twinkle against the melting sunrise, you could hear the magic notes in her singing that only sung at twilight. That’s how Van found you, swinging in his hammock, listening to Across the Universe and tracing constellations. 

He stood in the open balcony doorway, leaning against the frame watching you. Although you had heard him arrive home and come to stand there, you continued your spaced out moment.

Van melted. He was losing self-control and just when he thought he could pull himself together, you reached up to the sky and wriggled your fingers at the moon. That was is. He was on his knees next to the hammock, holding your jaw gently and pulling your face closer to his.

Looking into his blue eyes, you felt what he felt. It hit you suddenly, all that love. In lieu of a physical reaction, a jolt backwards or whiplash, your cognition spasmed and you spoke without consciously thinking.

“Do you know what this Friday is?” you asked. Van’s face remained unchanged, like he hadn’t even heard you speak. “Two years since we meet. Officially,”

“I love you,” Van replied quickly, although 'reply’ probably wasn’t the exact right word. He just spoke after you.

It made you giggle the worst type of giggle. All cute and adorable. “I love you too… Are you okay? You look- Are you high?!”

“No… I just… I want you to move in with me.”

He sounded so serious. That almost made you giggle too, but you restrained yourself on account of his beautiful hopeful expression. You moved to stand, letting Van take your hands and help you get out of the hammock less awkwardly.

“I will,” you replied, mirroring his seriousness. “But on one condition,”

“Anythin’,”

“Guitar lullabies all the time,” you requested, wrapping your arms around his neck.

Van pulled you into him by the hips. “Oh, babe. I was fuckin’ born to sing you lullabies.”


End file.
